I roll up the pant legs of my jeans,get to the gladness of bubbles, white foamon a red automobile. Think about the costof things. My daughters schooling, my sonshabits. My husbands countenance, even though

countenance is such an old fashioned word.I practice thinness. Pretend to be so far gonethat even those who've never taken the time to notice,notice me. How thin she is, they might exclaim.I hardly recognize her elements.

I think I'll grow up now. Stop pretendingI am so far gone that love is an awkward myth. I know it exists, can blossomin bones so old, the body surrounding themmight burst into colorlike a rose.

Take away love and our earth is a tomb, Browning wrote.

The scene now after the rain: children reemergeas the chorus of their voicessound like thunderclaps, faces shinethrough broken clouds.

No chance of desultory weather. No spot on redemption. In my grief I think I'll re-wash my car.

Wednesday, 18 March 2009

Persuaded by a bogus theology,Believing that God inhabits all things,We have at length given in to the grackles.No longer do I tap at the windowLest they devour seed meant for the goldfinches,Who can take care of themselves.The grackles cast an oily, blue-black glance:You put up bird feeders? We’re birds! Where’s the problem?Sadly, I no longer argue.With the squirrels, though, it’s a different matter

Wednesday, 11 March 2009

A bird, both feet planted firmly on a telephone wire, stares into the lavender void that enfolds him. Every half-minute or so, he turns, as though orbiting a planet nestled under his wings, tugging on a string wrapped around the moon, lifting it up for the prairies. Tonight, he is Atlas' assistant, coaxing the cosmos to comply with tired nations.

Sunday, 1 March 2009

sonnenizio on a line from FrostOne of my wishes is that those dark trees,their darker roots reaching into grassy swale,be full of darkling birds at evening – phoebe,nuthatch, thrush – to sing the bright-dark elegies of greenwood. A place darkenedby bones leaching into rich dark earth heldfast by rock, dark as dead dogs gone. Herethe young buck pauses, dark-set eyes alert,sniffs the air, then springs away into darkershadow-thickets. As afternoon darkensunder passing clouds, the dark-light danceof oak leaves rises to a darkening breeze.Time for the dark homing. A young dog markshis master’s call. Roots touch the deep darks.

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